


The Footprints of Her Demons

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bondage, F/F, Light pain, emo-porn, explicit - Freeform, hot wax
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1990188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aged-up Arya, now an experienced assassin and skin-changer, comes to Queen Danaerys with an unusual request.  NSFW and not for the very faint of heart.</p><p>For those previously following this series, the most recent chapter is actually Chapter 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Danaerys Targaryen had lain with the wolf girl, it had been a surprise. Dany had been expecting to retire for the night, and found her lying disrobed beneath the ruby silks of her bed. She was propped up on one elbow, almost expressionless, grey eyes focused on Danaerys as she entered the room, with her great silver direwolf curled in an oddly similar pose at the foot of the bed.

Danaerys did not fail to take in the low spark in those usually detached, cool eyes; eyes that had seen horrors, some of which Danaerys knew about, and some she did not. Eyes that were usually as cold, grey, and impenetrable as a stone wall… most especially when she killed. There was no heat in them when she ran someone through, or cut them down with a longbow; a wolf feels no delight or regret when it kills, it is simply existing in its natural state. Danaerys had always felt a certain kinship with that animal spirit. The dragon, like the wolf, is not cruel or angry; it simply does what it does.

“Lady Shadow,” Danaerys addressed her, a faint smile playing around the corners of her mouth. It was a nickname she’d given Arya long ago, owing to her peculiar skill of appearing unexpectedly and then melting into the shadows as quickly as she’d materialized.

“Khaleesi,” Arya replied. Her voice was calm and even, her temperament that of a calm sea with unknown depths.

“What are you doing in my bed?” she asked, amused more than anything.

“What’s it look like?” Arya replied. Her gaze was still and steady, voice cool and even, betraying little. Were it not for the fact of her nakedness, and the little spark in her eyes, which Danaerys did not recall having seen before, it would have been a hard question to answer. Arya Stark was fairly inscrutable. But Dany realized that this girl, a few years younger than she, had become a woman since she came to Dany four years ago. Dany had allowed herself to be fooled by the thick, loosely cut jerkins and bulky leather armor that Arya wore: now lying with just a thin layer of red silk draped over her, her shape was far more evident. It was not lush and ripe like Dany’s, but it was still womanly, to a measure that she’d not noticed till now; she had a slight frame, a small waist, a gently curving hip, and breasts that were a generous handful each, her stiff nipples visible through the sheet. She intended to bed the queen, and had no shame about it. Dany felt a little twitch between her legs.

“And how do you know I will say yes?” she inquired, still smiling with faint amusement, still considering the naked girl in her bed. She had been pleasured by handmaidens before, of course, and others in her service, but Arya was not that. She was not submissive. Nor, technically speaking, was she in Dany’s service. If she were to bed the girl, it would be a different matter than any she’d had in a long while.

“Because you haven’t fucked an equal, at least not in the time I’ve been around you,” Arya answered frankly. “And because I think you want to fuck me, even if you didn’t realize it until this moment.”

She was right about the first part. Danaerys had chosen her bed partners carefully, never laying with someone who would make her power vulnerable. As to the second, well… Arya’s eyes had gone from stone to smoke, and the young queen was realizing more and more with each passing second how curious she was to know what Arya’s body looked like under that sheet.

“And is that what you are? My equal?” Danaerys chuckled.

“Well, I’m not your servant, am I?”

“No,” Danaerys allowed. “But an equal to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass-”

“Are you going to stand there and tell me all your honorifics, Your Grace, or are you going to get in this bed and fuck me?”

There was nothing anymore that could shock Danaerys, but Arya Stark’s boldness was not something she’d encountered in anyone else anytime recently. She’d found Arya four years ago in the North; her dragons had incinerated a group of White Walkers that would have surely taken her if Danaerys had not intervened. And so, just as Ja’qen Haqar had done for her so many years ago, Arya determined that she owed Danaerys a number of deaths. She’d delivered on them long ago, yet still, Arya was a presence that would come and go in Danaerys’s court, and anytime a death needed to be dealt, she’d conveniently appear. Ser Barristan didn’t trust her, some of her advisers outright feared her, but Danaerys recognized some sense of honor in the girl’s being, and bade them not to worry. She felt sure that Arya would not try to harm her. Familiarity with loss, death, violence and pain was a form of emotional currency passed subtly between them in every exchange they had over the years.

Danaerys was silent for a moment. She was very much aware that unlike nearly anyone she’d bedded, Arya wanted nothing else from her. Arya couldn’t have cared less about her power, her title, her dragons, or what favors she could do. She wanted no marriage, no money, no promise of an army, no joining of houses. She wanted to be naked in a bed with her. The end. Nothing more. “Put the sheet aside,” Dany commanded with as much cool authority as she could marshall under the circumstances.

Arya’s expression barely changed, but it subtly shifted toward something more like a smile. “Come and move it yourself.”

Danaerys came to the bedside and drew the sheet away. Arya’s body was thin, wiry, strong, but still feminine, and her tits were everything that they’d advertised themselves to be from beneath the sheet. But what struck Danaerys were the scars; a pale gash across one shoulder, muted pink and purple puncture wounds on one hip, another set of shapeless scars (burn marks maybe?) on one thigh. She lightly fingered the one on Arya’s shoulder, her violet eyes traveling the road mapped by them.

“What are all of those?” Dany asked her, suddenly humbled.

“The footprints of my demons.” And after a moment more, she added, “And nothing that you haven’t got on the inside.”

In the pregnant pause that followed, Arya snapped her fingers, and her silver direwolf got up and moved silkily over to where Danaerys stood, looking at her intently. “Hello, Randa,” she said to the great beast, remaining ever so calm.

Randa lightly went up on her hind legs and delicately caught the shoulder strap of Danaerys’s gown in her great jaws, and pulled it down to her waist. Danaerys smiled and, looking at the fabric still between the wolf’s teeth, she patted her on the head. “Impressive little trick,” she remarked, liberating herself from her clothing the rest of the way, and stepping free of the heap of fabric on the floor.

“She knows what I want.”

The wolf rose up again and gently put it’s weight against Danaerys, tipping her onto the bed, paws against her shoulders. Dany looked into the wolf’s eyes for a moment as she lay on her back. So feral, yet so calm. So like Arya, she reflected. “Am I bedding you, or am I bedding Randa?” she asked playfully.

Arya shrugged. She snapped her fingers again, and Randa lifted herself up off of Dany and silently padded back to the foot of the bed. Arya rolled herself on top of Danaerys and gazed into her eyes seriously. “I will not hurt you. Not more than you want me to.”

And then she laid her mouth on Danaerys’s bare shoulder, slowly increasing the pressure of her kiss until her teeth were sinking into the silky, perfumed skin, until the sucking became so hard that it burned, and Dany cried out, not entirely out of pain. When Arya pulled her mouth away, she lightly brushed her fingers over the tender purple mark it had left.

Before she could say anything, Arya’s mouth had moved to her breast, sucking and licking the nipple hungrily, but still softly. Dany lost herself in the pleasure of it, when suddenly, Arya moved again, laying another searing, bruising kiss on her ribs below her breast. A light sweat broke on her skin.

And so it went; first pain, then pleasure, then pain again, each heightening the other in a seemingly endless upward spiral. Sometimes when Arya gave her pain, she found herself twisting her fingers through her short, dark hair and whispering, “Harder.” It made her hot, it made her tremble, it made her weak, yet it made her want more. Arya was not like any other; she was careful but not tender, rough but not brutal, giving but not submissive. She was teeth and nails, yes, but lips and tongue and tits and skin too.

When Dany dug her nails into the wild wolf girl’s shoulder so hard that she almost broke the skin, she saw past the smoky eyes; she saw she had given her what she needed, what her damaged soul had been seeking when she came to Dany’s bed. And she would oblige, Gods be damned.

She pulled Arya’s body full against her, kissing her lips, biting them, scratching her nails down her back, with her thigh thrust between Arya’s legs, feeling her hips grinding against it. “Turn over,” she whispered in Arya’s ear.

They rolled over together, and despite her own trembling, Dany took control. She pushed Arya’s legs open, sat between them, thrust her fingers inside of her wet cunt, and began stroking inside of her, her thumb pressed against the small, stiff bud of her clit. She reached to the bedside table and took the burning candle from it. Arya, through her waves of pleasure, watched intently as Danaerys brought the candle just above her stomach, and then slowly tilted it, so that a trail of red wax crept down the side. Danaerys barely felt it trickle over her fingers; she watched Arya’s face as it dropped down, off her fingers and onto Arya’s stomach. Arya moaned a low, hot moan, but never took her eyes off of Dany’s face.

One word, barely gasped out: “More.”

So Dany continued, dripping the wax onto Arya’s bare stomach and chest with one hand, stroking her fingers in and out of her hot, quivering sex with the other. Dany felt her grow tight around her fingers as she came, spectacularly, with trembling and scratching and cursing. Her fingernails left a thatch of red marks on both of Dany’s thighs.

As soon as that moment had passed, she pushed Dany onto her back, and dove down between her legs and gave her aching wetness a long, warm kiss spiked with deep red bites along her inner thigh. She finished quickly, trembling, dizzy and burning from the overload on her senses.

Arya propped herself up between Dany’s legs and they shared a long, silent look. They were both drained from their sex, marked up everywhere, exhausted, yet somehow had enjoyed a release that could not have been had any other way. She saw, in that moment, the depth of the rage and sorrow that lay behind Arya’s eyes, and why she made it her business to keep them closed, cold, detached.

Arya moved herself up the bed and laid down on her back beside Danaerys, arms crossed behind her head. Dany felt oddly hesitant to kiss or embrace her, or do any of the sort of warm, gentle things she would do with someone she’d just bedded. Arya turned her head to look at her, and Dany could see that she was already in the process of closing herself off again, so she leaned in quickly and placed a light kiss on her mouth. Arya looked at her for a moment, seeming to consider her, then returned it, with more warmth than her initial kiss.

She got up and walked to the window, gazing out of it silently.

“Perhaps again sometime, Lady Shadow?”

“Yes, perhaps,” she answered, not turning around.

Dany turned over, looking for a flint to relight the candle she’d accidentally extinguished. When she turned back over, flint in hand, both Arya and Randa had vanished, just as they had always done. Were it not for the marks on her skin, and the wet, tender flesh between her legs feeling as it did when she had been properly fucked, she could easily have taken it all for a dream.

A dream she hoped would recur.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya returns, and Danaerys ups the ante.
> 
> This is either hotter than Chapter 1, or I've gone completely off the rails. Either way, enjoy! ;)

Danaerys didn’t see Arya for a while after that first night. For two weeks, she would enter her chambers each night, vainly hoping that she might find the wolf girl in her bed again. Each night, her heart sank as she found the bed empty, and she instead laid down on the mattress and stroked herself to an orgasm while pressing and worrying her bruises with her other hand. But soon enough, the marks Arya left on her body faded, and when she tried to give herself the same kind of pain, it was no good. It didn’t work.

She could hardly explain what it was, how Arya had known how to hurt her just enough to make her want more, and why she craved it so fiercely afterwards.

This evening though, she sat by the window, worrying about something else. Word had come to her that Ser Jorah had been seen in Braavos and it tore open the old wound of his betrayal. She had told him all those years ago that she would have his head if he were to ever resurface; it would look weak if she were to fail to do it. But even in the face of all that old anger made fresh, she was not sure she wanted to do it. She sipped at her wine, brow furrowed.

“Do you need me, Your Grace?” Danaerys started in her seat. She turned around to find Arya leaning against the pillar near the adjacent window, dressed in her typical blacks and greys; thick jerkin, loose breeches, short choppy dark hair falling over one eye in a way that didn’t seem to bother her. Cool and unreadable as ever.

Dany reminded herself that she was the queen, and tilted her head back, regarding Arya with what she hoped resembled regal dispassion. “That depends. Why have you come to me now?”

Arya shrugged. “Thought you might.”

“For what, exactly?”

Arya shrugged again.  "You know what I have to offer.”

She was offering to kill Jorah. Or bed her again. Or both.

Her skin started to remember what Arya had done to it the last time they saw each other, and she felt herself becoming wet. She got up from the table and walked nearer. “My bruises are gone,” she said quietly, drawing nearer to her. “Are yours?”

Arya nodded.

Dany stood close to her, barely an inch of space between them, but she didn’t lift her hand to touch her. “Do you miss them?”

Arya didn’t answer. Danaerys was leaning in so close she could feel Arya’s breath on her lips.

“Do you want me again, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Dany whispered.

“Say it, then.”

Dany took Arya’s jaw and tilted it back, exposing the tender skin of her neck, and sank her teeth into it, increasing the pressure of it until she heard the grunt of pain she was waiting for. She pulled back and saw the red marks, and saw the look in Arya’s eyes, the look of having been suddenly cracked open. She smiled with a satisfaction that would disturb her later. “I am the queen, wolf girl. You do not give me commands.”

Arya seized Dany’s skirts and gathered them up, pulled them up in a bunch around her waist, sliding her fingers between her thighs and then into her, in one swift motion. “Then command me,” she challenged, thrusting slowly.

Dany’s legs trembled at the feel of Arya’s fingers inside her; she raked her fingers into Arya’s dark hair, yanked her head back and sank her teeth into her neck again, and felt her cunt flutter at the sound of Arya’s pained/pleasured moan. Her voice was ice cold as she rasped into the skin of Arya’s neck, “Fuck me, wolf girl. Fuck your queen.” And after a moment of Arya’s fingers digging rough, sweet pleasure out of her, she added, “And make it hurt.”

Dany wasn’t sure how it happened, but she was suddenly the one pinned against the wall, with Arya’s fingers buried inside of her, thrusting deep and hard; Arya’s teeth marking up her shoulders, her neck, her tits; Arya’s mouth switching between hard kisses that crushed her lips till they bled and soft ones where the warm teasing of her tongue was delicious and tender; Arya’s fingers twisting and tormenting her nipples until she could barely stand.

She reached down and undid Arya’s belt and took it from around her waist. She clumsily unlaced Arya’s breeches and yanked them down past her hips. She reached around and sank her fingernails into the pale skin of her buttocks, holding on as she came, standing up, pressed against the wall, with her nipple pinched roughly between Arya’s fingers. She made no effort to quiet her groans.

She grabbed Arya’s shoulders and spun her around, bending her over so that the windowsill was supporting her weight. She took the belt that she’d taken from around Arya’s waist, folded it half, and struck her bare ass with it, yielding a dull cracking sound, and a deep, low moan from Arya. She reached down between the wolf girl’s legs and found her wet and ready. She stroked the soft folds of her cunt for a moment, listening to her sweet whimpering, and then delivered the belt across her ass again, leaving another red welt. Arya moaned again and begged, “More.”

She would not deny such a plea. She tore the jerkin and the woolen shirt from Arya’s back, the white canvas of her skin laid bare before her. She would strike her, then stroke her, again and again; fondling her tits, leaving a welt on her back, tenderly fingering her wet cunt, bruising her ass, until the girl climaxed in tears and grateful moans of “Yes, thank you, yes, Gods, yes,” and sank to her knees on the floor at Dany’s feet. Dany knelt down and offered her hand. They rose together and made their way to the bed.

This time, Arya stayed for a few hours. She softly licked the blood off of places where she had broken Danaerys’s skin, then gently dabbed them dry with the bed sheet. Danaerys gently spread some ointment on the welts she’d left with Arya’s belt. They lay next to each other for a little while, face to face, not speaking, and reached between each others’ legs and softly stroked each other to a gentle climax. Dany was first to fall asleep. When she woke up, Arya was gone.

The next day, word came from Braavos. Ser Jorah was dead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst! The darkness of their souls! More hot sex, and I mean literally hot sex! Please enjoy the next installment of this emo-porn.
> 
> If you want another, let me know. I'm finding myself distracted by other ideas now, but if there's a demand for one more, I'll produce it.

Danaerys wept for days after she learned of Jorah’s death.  Never in the presence of others, although Missandei surely understood that she grieved.  She lay in bed at nights, alone with her marked-up skin, not even sure whether she wept because she regretted his death or because she was still so deeply hurt by his betrayal.  
  
She wished that she could summon Arya to her, demand to know why she had done it without being asked.  Ask her if he knew why he was killed, if he said anything.  But Arya was a wolf, not a dog, and would not come if called.  And in any case, Dany had no way to call her.  
  
A week of restless, sad nights passed before Arya came to her again, waiting in a chair by the window when Dany came to bed.  Dany froze and simply stared at her in silence for a few moments, waiting to see what she would say.  Arya’s look was cool stone, though, and she seemed as if she could outwait not only Danaerys, but the mountains, the seas, the sky, and time itself.  
  
“You should not weep for him, Your Grace,” she finally said quietly, after what seemed like hours.  
  
Danaerys came to her, tears rising behind her eyes, which were flashing with anger, despite her voice being cold.  “Do not tell me what I should or should not do, wolf girl.”  
  
Arya shrugged, regarding her in typical closed-off fashion for a moment.  Her face was all shadows and pale moonlight, impossible to read or pin down even as Dany felt the girl’s gaze scraping into the darker pits of her heart.  
  
After a few moments’ study, Arya asked,  “What am I to you, Your Grace?”  
  
Danaerys looked at her furiously.  “What?”  
  
“What am I to you?” she repeated.  
  
Danaerys shook with frustration.  When she used to arouse Viserys’s rage, he would warn her that she was ‘waking the dragon’.  “Is this a riddle?”  But she knew it was not.  It was simply a question that she could not rightly answer.  She could not call Arya her lover.  Nor her servant.  Her friend, perhaps?  No label she could conjure seemed to fit.  And it was this fact more than any that was waking her own dragon now.  
  
Arya looked at her steadily.  After a long moment, she said softly,  “I am your left hand, Your Grace.  I am the black deeds that your right hand pretends not to know.  I am the darkness in you that you can fool everyone else into believing isn’t there.  But I know what you need.”  
  
Dany leapt forward and grabbed her, one hand in her hair, one hand at her throat.  How could this wild girl, this assassin with no declared loyalties, no past, no future, dare to know what she needed?  But even now, her skin was singing a different song, even as she tightened her grip around Arya’s throat.  "You know nothing," she spat.  "You _are_ nothing."  
  
Arya choked a laugh out through Danaerys’s angry hold.  “Yes, good,” she gagged, but did not raise a hand to her.  
  
Danaerys, after a moment of roughly holding her that way, released the hand at her throat.  She knew Arya could easily kill her.  But she wasn’t even trying to fight back.  
  
Arya gulped some air.  
  
Danaerys pulled her to her feet, clutching the thick, grey wool around the neck of her jerkin.  Trying to trample the dragon, trying to keep a control that she sensed she had already lost.  They stood there panting, staring at each other.  
  
“Do you know why you like it when I hurt you?” Arya asked her, her voice almost a whisper.  Her arms still hung limp at her sides, and she made no move to defend herself.  Her eyes had broken open; they had that look, that haunted, raging, sorrowful look that Dany only saw when they were in bed.  
  
Dany shook her head mutely.  She had wondered at it, at the thrill it gave her to take Arya’s teeth and nails so roughly on her skin, to let Arya’s callused fingers torment her tenderest places.  But she never wondered too much, lest she should discover something she didn’t want to consider.  
  
“It’s because you’re still alive.  A part of you still hates what you had to do to take the throne.  What you’ve had to do since then.”  
  
Danaerys felt her fingers slowly uncurl around Arya’s clothing.  
  
“People see all your bright beauty, but they don’t see the poison you carry around,” she went on.  “But I do.  And I know how to let it out.  That’s why you like it.  And that’s why you know how to do it to me.”  
  
Dany swore she heard some high pitched howling in the distant background; was it Randa, baying for her mistress somewhere?  The cry of Arya’s soul?  Something produced by a broken place in her own mind?  She had the slow realization as she stood there, loosely holding Arya by the collar, that she had shrouded her own pain and hate in darkness thick enough to fool even herself, and that worse still, her eyes probably looked every bit as much like raw wounds as Arya’s did when they lay together.  That the sweet pain of being fucked by Arya Stark was cracking her open too.  
  
Arya’s hands slipped down to rest on Dany’s hips, and her look was one of bottomless need.  “Mourn your friend whatever way you see fit, Your Grace,” she said quietly, and her voice was soft as a breeze through the gossamer curtains of the Queen’s chamber.  
  
Danaerys took the girl’s face in her hands, pulled her in, kissed her hard, bit down on her lower lip till it bled, licked the blood softly away.  “How shall I punish you tonight, wolf girl?” she asked, suddenly aching to do it.  
  
Arya met her gaze, clearly wanting it just as much.  “Whatever way you like.  Only do it, please.”  
  
And so she tugged the clothes from Arya’s body, stripped her naked in silence, pushed her to the bed.  She took Arya’s belt, looped it around both wrists, and fastened it to the head of the bed, and then quickly lay a line of deep little bites up the inside of one of her thighs.  After slipping from her own gown, Dany walked to the fireplace, barehanded a fistful of glowing embers, and walked back to the bed.  Then she crushed the embers in her hands, and watched the shower of little smoldering sparks descend onto Arya’s stomach and chest; they cooled quickly, but not so quickly that they failed to still lay a hot sting on her skin in a hundred tiny places.  She groaned and writhed against the restraint of the belt.  Dany smiled and did it again, and then again, until she held no more embers, and Arya was slick with sweat, her hair clinging together in damp, dark strings against her forehead and the sides of her face.  
  
She ran her still-hot palms up Arya’s naked, scarred body, taking her tits in hand and rubbing her still-smoking thumbs over the hard nipples in a way that caused Arya’s eyes to close as if she were trying to imprint the feeling of it on her memory.  And when she pushed Arya’s legs open, and slipped her hot fingers inside, she found that her efforts had produced what she hoped.  She hooked her thighs around Arya’s and urged herself in, leaning back, until their cunts were pressed together, hot and wet, and began grinding her hips.  They found a rhythm that was tortuously slow, but it seemed to be where they wanted to be.  Dany would stop sometimes to lean forward and strike Arya across the face, leaving a hot, red handprint on her cheek; and the girl would cry out, and the look at her with such a sweet, aching vulnerability, that Danaerys could not help but do it again.  They continued this way until it spilled over; first Dany came, then Arya, and then Dany again, shuddering as she rode the girl’s gloriously soft, warm cunt until she couldn’t anymore.  
  
They would fuck a number of times more that night, some more gentle, some rougher; some times Dany controlled, some she surrendered.  By the end, they both felt worn through to the bone, muscles sore and screaming, skin bruised and bitten in too many places to number. So many places for her press and prod to give herself delicious echoes of pain in the in between times until she saw Arya again. Perversely, she almost looked forward to the waiting, the nights of stroking herself and fingering her welts and bruises, losing herself in the memory of what they’d done tonight.  
  
As before, Danaerys fell asleep first, and woke to an empty bed.  It was maddening, but she didn’t know when she would see her again.  She couldn’t call her, and doubted Arya would come to her if she did.  
  
As she was discovering, there was only one very particular way to make a wolf come.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter, by request, added in between the original chapters three and four. Arya brings a present.

 Dany awoke in her great, silken bed. The first thing she was aware of was the night breezes, unseasonably cool through the open window of her chamber, and the reflexive stiffening of her nipples against the cold air. The second thing she became aware of was the sensation of her wrists being bound to the massive carved headboard behind her. And then the familiar, needle-like pricking of a certain direwolf's teeth nipping at her ankle. 

 

She opened her eyes to find herself straddled by Arya, who had some how deftly stripped Dany naked in her sleep and was now regarding her with those eyes. Those smoky grey eyes, that roiled with volcanic heat . "Lady Shadow," Dany yawned, still rousing herself, "this is quite an awakening. What have you brought me this time?" 

Her cool was all part of their little game, though. She would feign calm detachment, and Arya would break her down by inflicting the most delicious pain. She was already wet with anticipation. 

Arya silently undid her belt and tugged her breeches down to reveal that she was sporting an impressively large cock made of something heavy (wood? Bronze? She couldn't tell in the low light) wrapped in leather, attached to her hips with what looked like leather straps. Dany's eyes lit up with fascination that she couldn't hide, watching Arya stroke its length with one hand. "I've brought something that will make the queen beg." She moved up the bed. "But I'm afraid I've brought no oil, your Grace, so I'm afraid you shall have to substitute." 

Dany mounted a token resistance that earned her a hard twist of her nipples. The sweet, searing pain shot through her and made her wetter still. They played at this a few more times until Arya nested a hand in Dany's hair, yanked her head back, and commanded, "I mean to claim you with this cock; now take it in your mouth and wet it." 

Dany turned her face to one side, her resistance earning her a stinging slap that send hot shudders through her. After a few of these, she opened her mouth, licking the length of the thing, and then accepting it deep into her mouth. 

She began writhing under Arya, aching to feel the thing inside her. When Arya pulled out of her mouth, Dany moaned, "I'm ready, my lady." 

"Do you want to be fucked?" she demanded. 

Dany nodded. 

"Beg for it." 

"Please," Dany moaned, "Please fuck me." 

Arya regarded her a moment more. "You want this cock in you, then?. Convince me." 

"Please, my lady, I need it. I need your cock. I am dying to be fucked... Please...". Desperation had come into her voice and it was what Arya had been waiting for. 

She moved back down the bed, pushed Dany's legs apart, and saw how wet she was. Pleased, she rid herself of her breeches, and took a moment to tease the soft, warm entrance to the young queen's aching cunt before sliding the cock in, slowly, all the way up to the hilt. 

Dany didn't bother to restrain her shouts and moans as Arya fucked her with quick, hard thrusts. She felt the cock's bulk sliding easily in and out of her, felt the heat in her belly from its impact deep inside her. She felt Arya's teeth, nearly as sharp as the direwolf's, biting and marking her skin, claiming it just as she was claiming her cunt with the cock strapped to her hips. As ever, the balance of pleasure, pain, and possession was exactly perfect. She came like earthquakes, like tidal waves, like dragon's roar; a force of nature too powerful to be contained. She came and begged for more as Arya obligingly, roughly, fucked her to a second orgasm and then a third. 

When it was done, she was wrecked, sore, exhausted. Perfect. And Arya untied her wrists, and kissed her mouth once, hot and yet gentle, before disappearing as she always did.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A perfect arrangement.

Since Danaerys had come to understand what she and Arya were doing for one another, she had stopped worrying about when Arya would come to her again.  It was inevitable that she would, and moreover, that she would not be able to wait for too long, because she needed the release as much as Dany did.  She became more able to enjoy the nights alone in her bed, touching herself and pressing her wounded skin, thinking about Arya's strong, wiry body pressed against her, grey eyes staring at her with that burning ache, that desperate need.

And she loved it best when Arya would slip through her chamber window when she was in the midst of her stroking herself, as she was approaching orgasm, and would pin her arms and legs down, refusing to let her finish herself off, instead bringing her over the edge with fresh bites to her neck and chest.  The hot sting of Arya's teeth digging into her flesh would race down her nerves, straight to her sex, delivering a stab of pleasure that pushed her to a meltingly-hot climax.

And that was the _beginning_ of the evening.  Those evenings were usually the best ones.

Their visits still stayed spaced at about a week apart, since they needed time between their nights together to let their bodies recover.  This kind of sex every night would probably literally kill them.  But with just enough of it, Dany found that her head was always clear and her mood always even.  And if the occasional problematic rival or traitor or spy turned up dead from time to time in the bargain, even better.

They became more creative as time went on. Dany had a pair of manacles waiting one night which she used to chain Arya to the bed before spanking her with a wooden switch.  Arya once brought a number of freshly-cut blushing pink roses, with such delicate little thorns; she placed the roses between their bodies while they fucked, making their heads spin from the pinpricks of the thorns, the perfume of the roses which grew stronger from the heat of their bodies, and the hot feel of their fingers in each other's cunts.  The joy/pain of licking the blood off of all those little scratches and pinpricks afterwards was hard to describe.  But for all the ways they found to pleasure and hurt one another, it seemed that Arya liked nothing better than the feel of Dany's incredibly, almost dangerously hot hands after they'd been inside the embers in the fireplace. And Dany most loved the simple thing of those searing, bruising kisses that Arya would lay on the soft skin of her tits and inner thighs.

And it was hard to say when she started to notice it, but she started to see something new in those grey eyes of Arya's.  When she arrived, they were not always so cool, so detached, so remote.  They were smoky, they betrayed lust and anticipation.  She was eager to lay Danaerys open and ravage her, eager to be worked to the bone by her queen.

 _Her queen,_ Danaerys thought one night, as they lay tangled in her bed, a pile of bruised limbs, and skin that smelled of sex.  She revisited a question that Arya had once asked her.  "Lady Shadow."

Arya smiled tiredly.  "What, Khaleesi?"

"What am I to you?"

Arya paused for a long moment.  "You are my queen," she said at last, still smiling that soft, tired smile.

Danaerys was underwhelmed by this reply.  "I am everyone's queen."

Arya made a little sound that was almost like a chuckle.  "You may be _THE_ queen, but that is not my concern.  _THE_ queen belongs to everyone.  You are _MY_ queen.  You would be _my_ queen if you were a cooper's daughter or a tavern girl."

Dany's heart squeezed in upon itself a little.  "Do you not serve me?"

"I do something more than that.  As you do for me."

And Dany thought she understood.  If Arya was right in that most of the world saw only Dany's bright beauty, but not her darkness, Arya was her mirror image, her inverse.  The world saw only Arya's darkness, her danger, and Dany was the one that saw that spark of beauty, that little star of her human soul that had not been lost to the tragic horrors of her life.  And looking at the wolf girl's eyes, she saw it now.  No more questions, she decided, and kissed her mouth, and they stroked each other to sleep.

It would be longer than normal before they saw each other again.  A week went by, and then a few more days, and then a few more.

Dany began to worry that she'd said something wrong the last time.

At the end of the second week, Arya turned up in her chamber, lying on the bed and in pain.  And not the good kind of pain.  Randa was beside her, nuzzling worriedly at her shoulder.  Dany ran to her;  when she peeled the cloth of her shirt back, it stuck to the skin.  Arya was wounded.  It was caked with half-dried blood, and looking infected.  Arya was hurting and delirious.  Danaerys sent straightaway for Missandei and the two of them, along with Randa, helped drag Arya into a bath, clean her wound, and return her to Dany's bed.  A Maester brought some herbs and Dany insisted on administering them herself.  It was clear that she had been somewhere, killing someone, and had run into more trouble than she'd expected.

After a few days' rest, Dany and Randa were both relieved to see her awaken and look around, somewhat lucid.  Randa licked her face while Dany stroked her hair and held back tears and whispered, "Lady Shadow, you gave me quite a fright.  Randa and I were quite beside ourselves.  Your Queen commands you to never almost-die again.  I forbid it."

Arya struggled to sit up, but Randa placed a paw on her chest and pushed her back down.

"Thank you, Randa," Dany said, patting the great silver wolf on the head.  "You need more rest, Lady Shadow.  Even Randa knows it."

Arya lay back down.  Danaerys began lightly stroking her face, her neck, her hair.  Her hands drifted down beneath the sheets, softly moving across her shirtless chest.  She saw through the ruby colored bed silks that however tired Arya might still be, that her nipples stood up stiff at the touch of Dany's fingers.  She began to mount some protest, but Dany simply said, "Sssh," and put a finger to her lips.

Arya gave a tired half-smile, and snapped her fingers.  Randa got up and padded down to the foot of the bed.  Danaerys stripped, and lay down naked next to her, continuing to wander her fingers lightly over Arya's skin, down her stomach and then back up, across her ribs, over her tits, where she paused to gently tug at the hard nipples.  Arya's head lolled back and she gave herself over to sighing.  "Your skin feels like a heaven," she murmured to Danaerys.  "Your tits..."  She ran out of strength to say whatever it was she was going to say.  Dany's fingers found there way down along her inner thighs, and then up into her warm, soft, tender sex.  She smiled to find it wet, her clit nearly as hard and ready as her nipples. She stroked it softly in firm, gentle circles, until she finished with a gentle shudder and moan, and for once, Dany was not the first to fall asleep.

The blazing, bright dragon queen and her strange, shadowy wolf-girl lover.  They were an odd pair.  They shared something that did not look like anything someone would recognize as romance.  But they needed each other.  When Arya was back to health, she resumed her murderous activities on Dany's largely unconsulted behalf.  And they continued as they had been; once a week, visiting sweet agony on each other, staying apart only as long as their bodies needed to recover from it, cleansing their souls from the grief and darkness they carried.  Theirs was a life that neither could have dreamt up for themselves, and yet, for them, it was perfect.  She never worried about sending for Arya, because she always came.  She never asked her to kill anyone for her, because she always knew what needed to be done.  She never told her how to make love to her, because she always gave her exactly what she needed.

They covered the footprints of their demons with wolf tracks, and dragon fire.


End file.
